Senior biology student

Mindanao State University - Iligan Institute of Technology

Many of my earliest memories were spent in a hospital.

That would be the most terrifying thing to hear for most people. But see, my mother happened to be a doctor. For the first few years of my existence on this earth, I was the unfortunate victim of the “bring your kid to work” phenomenon. Since I only had school half the day and my father would still be at work by then, I had no one else to take care of me but my mother, who worked as a doctor. I don’t remember much, only that it must have been dull for a toddler.

Back when my mom had to take long shifts in the hospital, she would bring me with her after school hours. She’d have me stay in one of those on-call rooms where the doctors stayed during breaks. I remember it having a wooden bunk bed and a table and chair, while the living area outside had a larger table with a handful of chairs, a refrigerator, and a boxy TV from the early 2000s.

When she wasn’t around, I’d be passed around by doctors and nurses, my babysitters for the day. Perhaps they were bored themselves, and the odd child in their midst seemed like a good idea for entertainment while they waited for the next patient to come in. I was a joyful kid in a place that often brought no joy to people, enjoying the company and attention of hospital staff.

Those early days made the hospital feel less like a place of fear and more like a strange kind of home. And that sense of familiarity followed me as my family moved from city to city. No matter where we went, the bleached halls and bright fluorescent lights always looked the same—whether in Cebu, Lanao del Sur, or even the Middle East. The sameness only made it clearer in my mind: medicine wasn’t just my mother’s world, it was meant to be mine too.

For years, I didn’t question the idea. It was what pushed me to go into STEM and eventually pursue a biology degree in the first place. That belief wasn’t unshakeable, though. I had my qualms whenever I got through tough exams and exhausting classes. I doubted my goals, my endgame. Am I doing this to make my parents proud? Am I doing this for the prestige? If I were already struggling in college, how could I even survive another four years or so in medical school?

One time, I presented my mother with a hypothetical: What if I didn’t become a doctor? I cited a handful of alternative options after I graduate—researcher, writer, even professor (after taking a master’s degree). I told her all these jokingly, but she shut down the notion as if I was insane to actually consider skipping med school. I shrugged that interaction off, but the conflicting feelings lingered. For so long, it was easy to believe I was destined for something that my mother seemingly set in stone. But now, not only was I lost, but I felt confused and even discouraged.

Maybe the only way to know was to try it for myself.

So when the summer before my senior year arrived and we were required to take our on-the-job training, I chose the hospital. If I was ever going to settle my doubts, this would be the test.

My friends teased me about it, telling me how it would be all easy for me since I was a “hospital girl” through and through. Like them, I thought I would be in my element, but I struggled. I was an introvert by nature, and my social battery would drain to zero by the end of every shift. It was hard to smile and talk to people, especially patients, when deep down, all I wanted to do was lie on a comfy bed and hide under the covers. How was I supposed to become a doctor if I didn’t like interacting with people in the first place? The irony wasn’t lost on me.

At first, the days proved my doubts right; I was drained, awkward, and painfully aware that I didn’t have the easy charm of a healthcare professional. Still, I decided to push through the internship before making any judgments. And somewhere in the weeks that had passed, the rhythm of the work showed me something else: even if I stumbled through small talk, I could make someone’s day a little easier. Even if no one noticed, I was part of someone’s healing. That quiet fulfillment felt like a thread pulling me back to where I began.

Now, in my final year of college, I still have my doubts about my near future. I still don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do for certain. Many of my earliest memories were spent in a hospital, and perhaps my future ones will be too. Or perhaps those fluorescent halls were only ever meant to be a beginning, not the destination.

Either way, the girl who once found comfort in those halls has grown into someone who can face whatever comes next.